Substitution Ineffective
by Andi Horton
Summary: The crossover you never saw coming! Based on an incredibly weird dream I had, and not at all serious. Well, hardly. Enjoy.
1. Chapter One

Substitution Ineffective

000

This is not going to be a very serious fic. You have been warned. It is definitely to be categorized as humour (you'll soon see why), Syd POV, completely lacking in spoilers, and . . . it is an Alias/Recess crossover.

Yes, Recess. That cartoon with the kids in it.

It is actually an embellished transcript of a dream I had after having too many strange things to eat, too soon before bed one Saturday night, which meant I had watched Recess that morning, and was eagerly anticipating the upcoming episode of Alias. It was actually a fun dream to have, and a fun fic to write, so I hope that it will be fun to read as well.

If you want to archive this, go ahead; just drop me a line and let me know where to find it. Or you can just contact me to let me know what you thought, because I do believe - yes, I really do think - that I have become a feedback junkie.

It's rated G because, let's face it, the cast is mostly cartoon (I still don't remember why that wasn't weird in my dream, but it honestly wasn't) and it will probably end up as a two or three chapter fic. Then again, if you've read Five Years, and Fifty Lilac Bushes, you're probably coughing discreetly into your fist right now anyway, so on second thought, let's not restrict ourselves to a length, okay? I'll just try not to ramble too much. Now I suggest that you just read it, and see what a mess I've managed to make of things . . .

000

_Sydney_

000

I'd like to say that the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, but it was actually a very gray and dismal day. Thick black clouds dumped out gallons of water whose pH. level was probably low enough to eat through a pop can, and in truth, the whole scenario closely matched the mood in which I left the house, because it had not, to put it mildly, been a good morning.

First, I slipped on a bar of soap when I was in the shower, and banged my shins against the wall. As the bruises appeared, I nearly electrocuted myself with the hairdryer because the cord had frayed away, and then I found that I'd forgotten to press my blazer the night before, so I had to wear the one I'd had on yesterday, which had a mustard stain on the cuff. Francie forgot to order milk again so we had orange juice on our corn flakes, and I had to stop for gas on the way to work, arriving ten minutes late because the service guy took his sweet time about helping me, and I wasn't about to further ruin my already dirty suit by standing out in the pouring rain to fill my tank.

By the time I got to my desk, I think any stranger could have seen that I was in a temper, and Dixon knows me more than well enough to know when he should stay away. Unfortunately, in his haste to get out of my way he backed into the coffee machine, sending scalding coffee down his back, and making me feel terribly guilty for no reason in particular.

Then Sloane emerged from splendid isolation to give us our mission, only to find that one half of 'us' was, at the moment, en route to the SD-6 hospital with several third-degree burns. He had to give our assignment to another team whose members were supposed to be going on vacation that week, and they, consequently, got a little peeved at me. Even Sloane's news that I could trade John and Kyle's vacation time for my own, if I liked, wasn't enough to cheer me up.

It was, however, enough to make me agree, if only to get out of the building and home, where I changed into more comfortable clothes, located a raincoat and umbrella, and headed out into the deluge to sit at a bench in an empty park. There I wrote a report of my pending vacation on a brown paper bag that I had to hold under my chin to keep from getting soaked into wood pulp, and then deposited in a brimming garbage can.

That done, I headed home, and wouldn't you know it? No sooner had I got the hot chocolate to the perfect temperature than did the phone ring, and I had to keep from saying something less than complimentary as I explained that I was not Joey's Pizza.

I did manage to make it to the warehouse without mishap, but I was pretty damp when I got inside. It was only a small comfort to me to find that Vaughn, too, looked a little limp around the edges, because I figured that as bad days went, I was having the worst.

"You look pretty grouchy for somebody who got her first vacation in about a year," he observed, and I managed a tiny smile.

"It's been a pretty rotten day so far, and it's not even noon. What's that tell you?"

"That it can only get better from here?" he suggested, and I guess my smile might have widened a bit.

"Maybe," I relented. "But Vaughn, why am I here? I told you, I've got a vacation- I haven't got a mission."

"I know. But Devlin thought your vacation would be a perfect opportunity for you to look into something for us. Your father was recently given an assignment by Sloane, and that fact alone concerns us. Your father is a very valuable agent, and he wouldn't be put out into the field unless it were imperative that they use the best."

"What's his mission?"

"To watch. He's supposed to see what K-Directorate is up to, sending one of their agents to this location as well. Sloane doesn't know what they're after, but he intercepted a communiqué that somebody was going undercover for some purpose, and they seemed to indicate that it was something important, so he's put your dad on location, and told him to get whatever it is before K-Directorate does. We're going to do basically the same with you, so your father can pass you everything he finds out. You'll be in a much better position to communicate with us than Jack will."

I scowled, not quite ready to give up a week of relative peace.

"Well, that's just ducky. Now, what I'd like to know is, why is it that they - whoever _they_ are - always intercept the 'what', but never the 'who', or the 'why'? Dad is basically being told to go and look for somebody undercover doing something- who that person is, and why he's even undercover are as of yet a complete mystery, and that's just sloppy spying."

"Maybe," Vaughn allowed, his mouth twitching, "but if we always got all the answers in our communiqués, we wouldn't even need people like you to go undercover for us, and find these things out."

"Fine," I allowed, seeing my vacation slip out the window, "but where am I going?"

"You'll be going to Maryland."

"Maryland?" I blinked. "What's in Maryland?"

Vaughn slid a file folder across the table to me.

"Many interesting things, I'm sure, but we as an agency are only really interested in the goings-on at one Third Street School."

"School? I'm going to a school?"

"Yes, you'll be posing as a kindergarten teacher. Your father is already in position, doing the same."

"_Kindergarten_?! Vaughn, do you _hate_ me?!" I gasped, stricken. He looked startled for a second.

"I- no, I don't. Is- is it really going to be that bad, do you think?"

"Vaughn, it's going to be _awful_! Kindergarten- they only put the strongest teachers there. Or the stupidest. Everybody knows that."

"Well," he smiled, "you're pretty tough yourself. How bad can it be?"

I shook my head in disbelief at his naivete.

If only he knew . . .

000

Patriot that I am, I went, but I knew it was going to be far from easy. Kindergarten is very much like the jungle- everybody's got a vague idea that only the really brave go in, but only the foolhardy think they're brave enough to do so.

I myself had no illusions- I'm studying to do this sort of thing, remember? I knew all the horrific details, and then some. I was shaking in my shoes the whole way, and when I finally got to the school playground, it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to turn and run all the way back to LA. Instead, I gave a nervous tug to the unusually flowery dress I was wearing, and headed for the main doors. I only hoped that my knocking knees wouldn't interfere with my cover story of having had two years' experience already . . .

I met with the principal first. He had very little to say to me, except that he hoped I was a lot tougher than I looked. Then he turned me over to a woman who looked a lot like a very dried-up onion, and smelled much the same, who introduced herself as Muriel Finster. On the trek across the playground to the kindergarten building, she gave me a rundown of all essential information.

It was pretty brief.

"Never let them look you in the eye," she warned ominously. "They can control you that way. Try to keep them away from anything flammable- there was an incident last year that . . . well, never mind that now. Also, we have a very strict rule about sharp objects. They are absolutely prohibited. After what happened at the Theodore Roosevelt Kindergarten in ninety-eight . . ?"

She broke off and shook her head, grimacing, as she pushed open a heavy door made of upright, sharpened logs and let me into a den of chaos. The kindergarten play yard was too tiny for the children, Miss Finster explained, so they played on the playground with the other children, and were only in the play yard when they were coming to and from the kindergarten building. Still, they had managed to do an impressive amount of damage on their way through, and it seemed that not a square inch had been left unscathed by chalk, paint, paste, or little hands. I nearly tripped three times just getting to the door, and when I banged my bruised legs on the overturned remnants of a picnic table, it was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears.

Inside the building, the hallways actually seemed reasonably undamaged. There was quite a lot of dried paint everywhere, but if you squinted, you could almost pretend that it was some sort of bizarre cubist fantasy, rather than a frightening-looking disaster.

"That class," Miss Finster pointed to my right, "is Jones' class, and that one," she pointed to the left, "is Smith's. Yours is this one, at the end." She placed her hand on the doorknob, glanced at me, and said grimly, "better say a prayer, Carter."

I smiled weakly at her, bit my lip, and watched in apprehension as she opened the door.

000

Okay, so it wasn't all that bad at first sight. As long as you don't mind a healthy dose of utter confusion, it was actually almost decent. Yes, a few of them were doing Tarzan yells and leaping from high places, and yes, most of them were eating things they shouldn't have been, and yes, of course they were covered in paint, but at least none of them were killing each other.

Scratch that thought.

I ran over and hauled one chubby kid off of a smaller girl whom he was in the process of smothering to death as he devoured her lunch.

"That's Frank," Ms. Finster observed. "He eats other kids' lunches."

"Yes," I gasped, setting him down with a thud that shook the foundation, "I noticed that myself."

"Well, they're all yours," she decided, as one of the children launched herself at my ankle and began to gnaw on it. "Come on, Simpson."

A thin, frazzled-looking woman with short hair and Band-Aids plastered all over her person hurried out the door without a word. Ms. Finster booted a coat-covered life form away from the doorway, and slammed the door behind her before any of them could escape, leaving me trapped with twenty-four raging little creatures, some of which were barely human in form.

It was all I could do to remember not to faint- I knew that if I fell down here, I would never get up again. Instead, I stood well back, and tried to referee as best I could with a child chewing on my foot and one of them trying to shimmy up the back of my dress to pour paste down my neck. After a while I fell into a sort of dazed stupor, acting without awareness and seeing myself as though I were nothing more than an impartial observer. By the time the recess bell rang, it was as if I had been there for a thousand years- maybe longer. I watched in relief as the horde stampeded through the open door, leaving me in a shell-shocked classroom with nothing but my own trembling self for company.

"Uuhhhhh . . ." I sank down to the floor, my knees rubbery, and waited for the world to stop spinning. Once it had, I stood up once more, and made my way cautiously to the doorway, making sure none of the children were lying in ambush before I actually stepped outside, and tottered toward the main doors.

Outside, I found the palisade door was hanging open, and through it I could see the entire population of Third Street school, give or take a teacher and detainee, running rampant all over the blacktop. Taking a few deep gulps of air to brace myself, I walked out of the kindergarten yard, nearly colliding with a thin, dark-haired man who smiled pleasantly at me, and introduced himself as if this scene was the most ordinary in the world.

"You must be Miss Carter- I'm John Smith."

"Really." I blinked. Did I sound overly skeptical? I'd never met a John Smith before- I hastened to cover up any hint of doubt that might have betrayed itself in my voice. "Oh- the other kindergarten teacher, right? Yes, I- I'm Diana Carter. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith."

"Please call me John," he urged. "How are you making out?"

"I-well, they take some getting used to, don't they?" I managed weakly, and he laughed- a rich, warm laugh that gave me the impression I was supposed to fall in love with him, now that I'd heard that laugh.

It didn't work.

Instead, I smiled politely, and watched out the corner of my eye as my father detached himself from the throng of knee-high terrors and came over to stand with us.

"Miss Carter?" he asked, face impassive, "Roger Jones."

"Pleasure," I murmured, shaking his hand. "Which ones are- are yours, Mr. Jones?"

"Who can tell?" Dad shrugged helplessly, and as he did so his torn shirt cuff fluttered in the breeze. "As long as they manage to get back into the right classroom without bloodshed, it's considered a good day."

"Your shirt is torn," I observed, pointing to it, and he looked down, obviously seeing this for the first time.

"Huh. I wonder when- oh, yes, the cupboard door. The children had gotten a hold of a skipping rope, and they tripped me, and my sleeve caught on the door of the paint cupboard as I fell."

"Were you hurt?" I held my breath, waiting for the answer. If he had been, I might as well pack up and head home now because if they could get to Dad, what hope was there for me? Fortunately, he shook his head.

"No, I escaped. Now, you, Miss Carter, must have arrived just this morning, correct?"

"Yes."

"Well, I hope you'll feel at home," he said, but it sounded more like a wish for a pleasant funeral than a welcome, and it occurred to me to wonder just how long Dad had been undercover.

"Thank-you, I- hey! Hey, you! Stop that!" I took off after a pair of boys and a girl who were chasing a terrified squirrel. A fifth grade girl slightly ahead of me took an interest, and yelled some friendly advice.

"Get away! They'll give you rabies if they bite you!"

"I'm more worried about the squirrel, dear," I informed her, and she looked surprised.

"Well, who did you think I was talking to? It doesn't matter now, anyway- look, he got away."

Indeed, the squirrel had scaled a tree on the other side of the fence, and despite the efforts of the preschoolers to form a human ladder to reach him, he remained out of reach. I shook my head, dazed.

"Wow. I don't think I'm going to be able to handle this."

"Aw, you're doing just fine," the little squirrel activist encouraged me. "Really. Ms. Bowen was in Emergency by ten o'clock when she came to fill in for Mrs. Simpson. If you've made it this far, you'll stick it out till the end."

I give her a weak smile.

"Thanks- I think."

"No problem. You haven't been here long, have you?"

"No, I just got in this morning. I- I'm Miss Carter."

"Spinelli," she grinned at me, and I found myself smiling back.

"Is that your first name, or your last, or a nickname?"

"My last name." She kicked at a stone that lay in front of her. "It's what everybody calls me. 'Cause I won't answer to my real name."

"I see." I said gravely. "And what grade are you in now, Spinelli?"

"Fifth. Fifth, and not even two years until I'm on my way outta here. Middle School's gonna be weird, I guess. I'm gonna enjoy this year and the next as best as I can."

"That sounds like a plan," I smiled. "Do your friends feel the same way?"

"I dunno. Maybe. They're all absent today, except for Gretchen, who's working for extra credit, and T.J., but he got a detention for making a mashed potato sculpture of Miss Finster."

"Oh." I blinked. "Was it an- erm- good likeness?"

"You bet!" Spinelli gushed, her face glowing. "Was it ever! I almost expected the sculpture to give him detention, not Miss F. But it turned out she'd been watching him the whole time, and she pounced just as he was using some cottage cheese for the hair."

"I'm sorry to hear that." I still can't quite believe that I managed to keep a straight face. Then it was my turn to be interrogated.

"Where'd you come from, Miss Carter? You aren't from around here."

"No, I'm not. I came up from LA, where I got my teaching degree and my internship before looking for a job."

"Uh." She grunted approvingly. "Where are you living?"

"Over on Elmwood Drive. I have a little apartment there."

__

Actually, it's more of a closet. I'm going to have a few strong words with Vaughn when I get back to LA. I am becoming seriously claustrophobic.

"I see." She appeared to be searching for further questions. "Parents?"

"Divorced. One dead."

"Aw, gee. Sucks."

"Kinda, yeah."

"Husband?"

I found myself actually laughing. "No! Not yet, at least."

"Boyfriend?"

"No." I smiled quietly, and she shrugged.

"That's weird."

"Why?"

"You seem really nice. I can't believe that every guy out there is stupid enough to not at least try for you."

"Thank-you." I blushed. "Are you always this nice to the new teachers?"

"Sometimes." She grinned. "If I really like 'em. Like I said, you seem nice."

"Well, thank-you." I repeated, for lack of another available response. "I- so do you. You seem- unique, too."

"I am," she agreed, with neither pride nor modesty. "I'm very unique."

"Nothing wrong with that," I decided, and she shook her head.

"No, there isn't. I- oh, hey, better get her."

I followed her pointing finger, to find that a smallish girl - presumably one of mine - was stalking the bare ankles of a couple of third-grade kids. Her teeth were bared in a fashion most disconcerting, and I threw a quick thank-you over my shoulder to Spinelli as I took to my heels, and caught the miniature piranha just as she launched herself in for the kill. She struggled and kicked as I hauled her back towards our half of the playground, and deposited her in a sandbox. She promptly started gumming on another girl's overall straps, glaring balefully up at me the whole time. Since the other girl didn't seem to mind that her clothing was being devoured by her classmate, I shrugged, and left them to their own devices.

I might, in hindsight, have then returned to talk to Spinelli, but it seemed as if the entire playground conspired against that prospect. First, I met two other teachers who were on duty. When they heard I was a kindergarten teacher, they gave me looks of such sympathy that I got depressed, and slouched over to sit on a bench and think happy thoughts, like, how many different ways I could kill Vaughn when I got back to LA. Then I found out that I'd sat down in gum, so my skirt was stuck to the bench, and I had to send a first-grader to get some scissors and cut me free. She ended up cutting a good-sized chunk of material out of my skirt as well, so I sported a sort of rear view window for the rest of the day.

I also broke up three fights that might otherwise have ended in bloodshed, nearly lost most of the flesh on my left leg to Biter Girl, bit my nails to the quick, and considered no less than twenty-six times scheduling a tubal ligation for the very day that I returned to LA. I couldn't believe that it had only been twenty minutes- somehow, it seemed like a lifetime had passed before the bell rang, and the kids ran, screaming, back towards their palisade, and we three teachers tottered in their wake. Just before Dad and Mr. Smith entered their classrooms, Dad leaned over, and tapped the back of my scraped and bruised wrist significantly. When I caught his eye, he blinked a rapid-fire Morse code message.

__

My class. Three forty-five.

My nod was barely perceptible, but I hoped he caught it before I collared one little boy who was trying to make a break for it, and vanished into my classroom, him tucked securely under my arm.

The next five minutes, before the parents of the morning kindergarten children came to collect them, were not too bad. They didn't kill each other, there were no broken bones or serious abrasions, and only two tried to eat something that would probably have resurfaced in a few minutes. The parents' arrival was my cue to throw everything back into some kind of order before my own one hour recess ended, and the other children arrived halfway through lunch hour.

I was just tucking the last ripped corner back into the beanbag chair when the first kids arrived, a sulky-looking pair of twins, boy and girl, being hauled in through the door by their not-unattractive father. He blinked when he saw me, and seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking hesitantly.

"You, uh- are you the regular teacher?"

"No," I smiled, "I'm substituting for Mrs. Simpson."

"Oh, good," he looked relieved. "I sort of thought you looked different."

Mrs. Simpson, I later learned, is Chinese.

"Who are these?" I wondered, smiling at the pair, both of whom appeared to be extremely hostile.

"This is Brandon," he nudged the boy forward, "and Melissa. Melissa promised she wouldn't try to climb out the window again today, so you should be all right."

"Oh." I said faintly. "How wonderful."

Then more parents started to arrive, and I fielded questions regarding my identity, my credentials, my sanity and my ability to physically defend myself.

"It's not that he's a _bad_ boy," the mother tried to explain. "He just gets excited sometimes, don't you, Mark, dear?"

Mark, dear was already eyeing one of the smaller children maliciously, and I made a mental note to bring in some pepper spray the following morning if there wasn't some law that expressly forbade it. The afternoon class, though, did have the - slight - advantage of being able to proceed immediately to the playground, which (fractionally) wore off their energy.

I did look around for Spinelli once or twice, but didn't see her. I wondered if she, too, might have ended up in detention- perhaps a mustard mural of Principal Prickly? Whatever had happened, I didn't have long to wonder. The bell rang much sooner, it seemed, than it had done that morning, and I was faced with the prospect of an entire afternoon with these little hellions.

Prayer, I found, seemed more than a good suggestion right now- it seemed a necessity.

000

To this day I don't know how I did it, but, somehow or other, I did do it. That is, I got through the rest of the day with them. It did help that I had two or three kids in this class who weren't too bad at all, and seemed content to simply sit and eat paste for the entire afternoon, which, in comparison to the chaos around me, seemed perfectly acceptable.

I did have a little trouble with Mark the would-be-killer, who, it turned out, liked to throw small people off of tall objects. I saved two little girls and one smallish boy from a braining, and had to send two of them to change their pants. I also encountered difficulties when somebody hit Brandon, and Melissa rushed to her brother's defense, getting in several excellent rights and a few decent lefts before I hauled her off of her victim.

Resisting temptation to compliment her on her technique, and possibly even offer and request a few pointers, I explained that such action was just not acceptable. She pouted, and her brow furrowed dangerously. I considered preparing to block a punch, but instead, she just stomped her foot, and hauled her twin off to the corner to teach him a few basic moves, which, it soon became evident, he had no aptitude for whatsoever. Still, I was amazed at how patient she was with him, never so much as rolling her eyes when he fell flat on his bottom trying to do a roundhouse. Maybe, I thought, just maybe, there was some shred of humanity in these kids after all.

Then, of course, I had to pry scissors from sticky fingers just before they were plunged into another kid, and had to drag Mark away from another potential victim, and the thought was lost, but it would return. Eventually.

Someday.

000

By the time parents came to retrieve their little darlings, I was a mere shadow of my former self. I barely nodded when they asked if I was still conscious, and it took me quite a while before I was able to drag myself upright and try to straighten out the room. At ten to four Dad appeared in the doorway, concerned.

"Sydney, are you all right?"

Assuming that John Smith had left, since Dad was addressing me by my real name, I shook my head, burst into tears, and collapsed on a beanbag chair. Dad shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, and I couldn't stand it, so I snapped, "what are you waiting for? Get over here and hug me, before I kill myself!"

He looked startled, but he came, knelt, and awkwardly positioned his arms around my shoulders. It had been a long time since I had felt that, but as soon as he was holding me, the memories came rushing back. Each and every time he had lifted me high into the air, laughing, then pulled me back down to his chest to bury his face in the top of my head, smoothing my hair and telling me how much he loved me.

Now he was a little out of practice, but the general sensation was still the same. He was big, and strong, and felt safe. My sobs subsided, and presently I sighed with contentment.

"Thanks," I said softly, "I needed that."

He drew back, slightly flushed, but smiling faintly. "Yes, I- I think that I did, too."

I nodded, sighed, and struggled to my feet.

"Sorry I'm late for our meeting- it was just really overwhelming. And then I had to clean up, and- well, to be honest, for a while I thought that I wasn't going to make it."

"That is apparently the normal way of it," Dad reassured me. "I've been speaking to a few of the teachers around here, and they're all in agreement that you seem tough enough to stick it out."

"Darn," I scowled. "I was hoping to be put out of my misery before too long."

He laughed in appreciation, then grimaced, reaching up to touch a deep-looking cut that traveled the length of his jawbone.

"Dad, what happened?" I asked, alarmed, reaching out to touch it. He actually flinched.

"Oh, I just fell against the counter. I was trying to avoid knocking over this castle some of them were building with discarded lunch materials, and I stepped on a dump truck. It sent me flying, and- well, it isn't as bad as it looks."

"Well, it looks horrible, so it could still be pretty bad. Is there a first aid kit around here somewhere?"

"Yeah, I think there's one in the main office. They don't keep them in the kindergarten classes anymore, because the supplies never lasted for more than a day, and if they did, the kids used them to tie up the teacher, so it was generally voted that they should be removed from the building entirely."

"Really? Somehow that doesn't seem very- safe."

"Well, in place of the first aid kits, we get a direct line to the emergency room." He pointed to a glassed-in red box on the wall, positioned well away from the reach of any kindergarten child, which housed a phone.

As I helped Dad out of the building and towards the main building, I decided that this seemed a fair trade-off. After all, Dad wasn't going to faint from loss of blood, and when we reached the office, I could bandage him up properly. When we reached the office, I made him sit down while I located the box, and began to disinfect and cover the cut.

"You ought to be less concerned about their artistic creations, and more worried about getting out of this alive," I observed, as I swabbed him with alcohol wipes. Dad is the only person I know who doesn't flinch at the sting- even I grit my teeth when I'm disinfecting my minor abrasions.

"Yes, well, the children may not be our undoing," Dad said grimly. "I'm not overly fond of our Mr. Smith."

"No? And why is that?"

"Besides the fact that he combs his hair over his bald spot, I just don't trust him. I think that he's our K-Directorate agent, Sydney."

"Well, just because you don't trust him doesn't mean he works for the scum of the universe."

"No," Dad agreed, "that's _our_ job."

I smothered a snort of laughter.

"Well, Sloane may be putrid, but I guess we're making up for it right now, right? So- anything concrete on Mr. Smith, or only your suspicions of a too-likable, untrustworthy fellow who's thinning on top?"

"Nothing concrete," Dad had to admit, "but in this business, there is a certain amount of credibility to be given to instinct. After you've been doing this as long as I have, you'll agree with me."

"Dad, I already agree with you. About that, I mean. There are other issues I might like to debate sometime, but for now, you-" I plastered a piece of adhesive tape over a gauze strip that covered the wound, "are done, and I want to go home to my little closet and get some rest before tomorrow comes."

Dad agreed that this seemed an advisable course of action, so after we returned to the building to collect a few belongings we parted ways in the parking lot. As we headed for our respective temporary homes, both of us, I am sure, were hoping desperately for anything but dreams of tomorrow.

000

When I arrived home my tiny apartment was surprisingly cold. Shivering, I hunted about for some sort of temperature control device, but found none, so instead I piled every blanket and towel I could find onto my bed, put on two layers of pyjamas, snuggled deep down under the covers, and fell into the sleep of the utterly fatigued.

I didn't wake up until six thirty, a full twelve hours later.

000

The next day, I was actually able to get to school before the children did. I was just closing a window when there came a light knock on my door, and I looked up to find my father's favourite guy, John Smith, standing there.

"You're back for more, I see," he smiled.

"Oh- hello, Mr. Smith," I smiled back.

"Please- John," he urged, and I nodded agreeably.

"John, then. Are you all set?"

"Yes, I think so. I seem to have gotten the best of the lot this year."

"I was noticing that yours don't seem to have as much problem with settling down." I admitted, and he nodded.

"Yes. They are still troublesome, of course, but I do manage fairly well, I think. You'll be all right, will you?"

"Oh, I think I can handle them," I shrugged. "It's a lot like being in the same cage as a lion, really, isn't it? You just don't want to turn your back on it. And if I stand in a corner, I should be just fine."

He laughed and nodded, and once he had ascertained that there was nothing he could do for me, he wished me a good day, and left. I don't know why I was so relieved- he really wasn't a bad or annoying person. He seemed very nice. Maybe, though, he seemed a little too nice? That, perhaps, was why Dad was wary of him, and why I, too, was becoming unsure. He would bear watching, I decided, if nothing else.

000

When my class arrived, I was ready for them. Standing with my back to the wall I welcomed them cordially, and, by aid of arms, feet and a few piercing whistles, I managed to keep them more or less subdued. Yes, of course, there was a healthy amount of confusion, but I was able to salvage most lunches from Frank's grasp, and keep Biter Girl away from most visible appendages. In fact, I managed to keep everybody relatively unscathed until the recess bell went, and they again stampeded out to wreak havoc on all unwary passerby. I was just on my way out after them when Dad came rushing to my classroom door, pushed me back inside, and pulled the door shut behind him.

"Mr. Jones," I said cautiously, "I don't think-"

"Smith's gone outside already," he interrupted impatiently, "so you don't have to worry about him overhearing any of this. Now, listen to me for a moment. It _is_ him, Sydney. I just found out for sure this morning. He's K-Directorate all right, and this is bigger than any of us ever imagined."

"Dad, you're scaring me. _What's_ bigger than we ever imagined?"

"His plan, Sydney!" Dad said, and I think it was the first time I had seen real fear in his eyes. "K-Directorate's plan! You aren't going to believe it- I can hardly believe it myself, but it's the only thing that makes sense. And it's horrible, Sydney. Believe me when I tell you, it is horrible. If this is unleashed on the world-" he broke off, troubled, shaking his head.

"No person could possibly stand a chance. Not one."

000

000

Well? What do you think it is? Nothing serious, I promise! I hope to make this only sillier as time goes on. Do you like it so far? Let me know! I would really be delighted to hear from you. The second chapter won't be very long in coming, I promise.

Now, I would like to take the time to say that I love kids. They're terrific- you can learn a lot more about life by listening to a child than you can by talking to an adult, because while neither of them knows everything, the adult will try to pretend he does but the child honestly believes he does, so there is something extra special in a child's candour. Recess, however, has created for us a highly entertaining picture of kindergarten life, and it was this one that was used in my dream, so it will be this one that appears in my story. If any kindergarten children are reading this, I apologise if you feel yourself to have been misrepresented, and promise that I really do not feel you are anything close to the heathen savages as you have been herein portrayed by me. Honest.

Now for some technicalities . . .

Alias and Recess do not belong to me. Recess belongs to Disney and ABC, and as soon as I find out who created it, I'll be sure to let you know, because your guess is as good as mine. Alias belongs to ABC Touchtone and was created by JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions (weird. Very weird.)

Anyway- hope you liked it, because there's more to come!


	2. Chapter Two

Second installment of something I am beginning to think was too crazy to really even be a dream, but I closed my eyes, and there it was, so- here it is.

(Oh, you wanna read the rating and stuff? Go back to the first chapter. This is going to be reserved for serious story writing. Well- as serious as three spies, the Recess gang and too many kindergarteners can be. Erm- just enjoy it, okay?)

000

_Sydney_

000

"Mr. Jones," I said cautiously, "I don't think-"

"Smith's gone outside already," he interrupted impatiently, "so you don't have to worry about him overhearing any of this. Now, listen to me for a moment. It _is_ him, Sydney. I just found out for sure this morning. He's K-Directorate all right, and this is bigger than any of us ever imagined."

"Dad, you're scaring me. _What's_ bigger than we ever imagined?"

"His plan, Sydney!" Dad said, and I think it was the first time I had seen real fear in his eyes. "K-Directorate's plan! You aren't going to believe it- I can hardly believe it myself, but it's the only thing that makes sense. And it's horrible, Sydney. Believe me when I tell you, it is horrible. If this is unleashed on the world-" he broke off, troubled, shaking his head.

"No person could possibly stand a chance. Not one."

000

"Well?" I said sharply, after a minute or two of suspenseful silence had passed, "what is it?"

"He- I can't say it." Dad shook his head, stupefied. "Sydney, I can't-"

"Yes, Dad, you can. Force yourself."

He took a deep breath, and nodded. "Yes. Fine. Okay, I - I can do this. Sydney, it's- he's brainwashing them."

"Who?" I blinked.

"The children! He's brainwashing the children!"

"The- the kindergarten children?"

"Yes! He- he has some sort of machine that you hook the child up to, and they can be programmed to do whatever you say."

"Mr. Smith has a machine that makes kindergarten children do his bidding?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, Daddy, can _we_ get one?!" I gasped, and he gave me a startled look.

"Sydney! No! How can you possibly- well, wait, actually, no, you might have something there . . . No!" he shook his head quickly to clear it. "No, we cannot! That is cruel, young lady! He is robbing these children of their free will! And can you imagine what K-Directorate could do with an army of kindergarteners?"

We fell silent in the face of such horrors.

"They'd be unstoppable." I whispered at last, dazed. "Nobody could defeat them. The casualties - both civilian and otherwise - would be catastrophic- oh, Dad, that's awful!"

"My point exactly," he said grimly. "So this presents us with an interesting problem."

"Where to find enough firepower to defend ourselves with?"

"No! Well- maybe, yes. But hopefully it won't come to that. I was referring to the problem that Sloane expects me to give him something, and there is no way I could give him this. In the wrong hands- it would be terrifying."

"Well- yes. It would."

We fell silent again, and might have remained that way for who knows how long, had not there come a tentative tap on the doorframe, and a dark-pigtailed head poked itself around the corner.

"Miss Carter?"

"Oh- Spinelli! Hello! How are you?"

"I'm good, I guess. 'Cept one of Mr. Jones' kids is eating Miss Finster's shoes, and she's kinda hoping to at least save the sole, so if he could come now-"

"Yes, of course," Dad nodded, hurrying towards the door. "I'll be right there."

"Mr. Smith?" I called, and he stopped, looking back.

"Tempting, isn't it?" I said pointedly. He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and then hurried out the door, leaving me standing with Spinelli.

"So-" I said uncertainly," are your friends back today?"

"Yup. They're all outside. You should come out and meet 'em- I told them about you, and they can't wait to meet you."

"Oh- all right, then. Just let me tidy up, all right?"

She nodded, and watched as I kicked things back into position until they were arranged to my satisfaction.

"There. That's it. Now let's go."

Outside, it was actually sunny. I don't know why I was surprised- maybe because after a morning of barely keeping it together, like I had, you start to expect thunderclouds everywhere you look. Instead, though, I actually felt myself growing warm as Spinelli hauled me over to where a motley assortment of children were knocking a tetherball around.

"Hey, you guys," she said, and they all stopped to look up at me with neither suspicion nor hostility- just simple interest. "This is Miss Carter, " Spinelli announced, "the kindergarten teacher I told you about."

They circled me like a group of miniature news hounds, eyes roving over every inch of me. If the boys weren't in fifth grade, and not even shaving as of yet, I might have felt violated.

"Um- guys?" I asked uncertainly.

"Amazing," breathed the smallest boy, who wore khakis and glasses too big for him, and had his blonde hair cut in a military style.

"What?" I pressed nervously.

"Didn't believe me, didja?" Spinelli asked smugly, and a tall, African-American kid who had 'All American Athlete' written all over him gave a low whistle, obviously impressed.

"No, I guess not. But you were right."

"Right about what?" I fidget, trying to follow them all at once.

"Gotta hand it to you, Spinelli," a short, stocky boy with a bulky grey jacket, and a ball cap that looked like it spent more time on his head than off, sighed, "she really is."

"I am what?" I fairly shrieked. "I don't get this at all! You kids are worse than my kindergarteners! At least they don't babble on about NOTHING in front of complete strangers! That's just RUDE!"

A thin, reedy-looking girl with too many teeth for her head adjusted wire-frame glasses, and spoke in a congested tone.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Carter. We were simply marveling at your intact state of being. Most kindergarten teachers don't last five minutes without contracting an injury of some sort- I understand you went until the noon recess yesterday before your skirt had to be - erm - operated upon."

She leaned in closer, and spoke in a confiding way.

"That is a most impressive record."

"Uh- thanks." I said uncertainly. "I think."

"How do you do it?" breathed the largest child- a bulky, blonde boy with a disconcertingly feminine voice. I shrugged nervously, but before I could formulate a response, Ball Cap Boy spoke confidently.

"She's a secret agent. She's got to be. That's the only answer."

I gaped at him. Quite honestly, I could not stop staring, and I could not shut my wide-open mouth. Of all sources from which I might have expected exposure, the least likely on my list - had it even made my list - would have been a fifth grade boy in a jacket bodering on too big for him, with one sneaker untied and a ball cap that wasn't on right.

It just didn't seem fair.

The other kids, though, were eyeing him skeptically, and missed my look of astonishment.

"Yeah, sure, Teej," Spinelli snorted, "Miss Carter's a secret agent! You gotta love him, Miss Carter," she apologized, turning to me. "I mean, once you get past all the conspiracy theories and stuff, you really gotta love him. He's got a terrific sense of humour."

"So I see," I smiled, finally regaining control over my mouth. The boy, though, was eyeing me knowingly, and I hoped that the warmth I felt creeping up my cheeks was from the sun, and not a sudden rush of blood to my skin surface.

"Are you going to introduce me?" I managed, and Spinelli smiled sheepishly.

"Oh, yeah, Sorry. The one with the crazy ideas is T.J. and the little one with the glasses is Gus. That's Gretchen, there," Glasses Girl nodded politely, "and Mikey," the big boy smiled beatifically, and I smiled back, "and this is Vince."

My head was spinning by the time she was done, but I managed to nod at each of them, though I was surprised that I actually got their names straight.

"Nice to meet you. All of you. T.J.- you're the aspiring sculptor, right?"

He cracked a grin, and scuffed the asphalt with the toe of his sneaker. "Yeah. But she's so easy to do when you have a plateful of mashed potatoes in front of you."

"I can see that she might be," I twinkled at him, and he actually blushed.

"Yeah, well- where'd you come from, anyway?"

"What, all those questions, and you didn't tell them?" I demanded of Spinelli.

"Yeah, I told them." She gave T.J. a funny look. "What's wrong with you?"

I knew what was wrong with him, of course- absolutely nothing. He wanted to see if I would maintain my cover story. This was not a stupid kid.

"Nothing," T.J. said innocently, though I think he caught the grudgingly admiring look I shot him. "I just forgot. So- do you play tetherball, Miss Carter?"

"I can," I said modestly. When you beat up bad guys for a living, tetherball is not exactly a challenging sport, so you have to be modest about it.

They found out soon enough that I was just being modest, anyway. Not only did I have a major height advantage over everybody, but I have a killer right, if I do say so myself, and, when they tried to change the direction of the ball, they found out my left isn't too shabby, either (sometimes it pays to be ambidextrous). By the time we were done, I had actually broken a sweat, and the kids were gaping in open admiration.

"How long did you say you were staying at Third Street?" Gus, the little crew-cut kid, breathed in awe, as if he hardly dared to expect an answer.

"I don't know," I shrugged. "However long they need me."

Then the bell rang, so I had to start chasing kids towards the building, but T.J. managed to catch me before I left, and said, "and who might 'they' be, Miss Carter?"

Spinelli heard him, and made a face, but I chose not to tell him that he was crazy. Instead, I simply shrugged, which probably made his day. He all but floated off to the bigger kids' building, most likely planning on calling the Russians the first chance he got, and demanding an immediate report on the status of all agents currently stationed in his hometown.

000

Once I had barricaded my monsters into the room, I headed to Dad's class. Looking in the barred window set in the door, I found he was ducking a lasso made out of a jump rope, and hollering, "now, cut that out! All of you! I mean it!"

I couldn't help it. Even with everything I had been going through over the past day or two - all the stress, desire to kill my handler, and more numerous than usual threats of bodily harm - I honestly couldn't help it. I doubled over and laughed until tears ran down my face, and Dad saw me, and bolted for the door with a look of profound relief written all over his face.

"Syd- Miss Carter! You have to (get off me, you bloody little heathen!) help me!"

I would have. I really would have. If only I could have stopped laughing . . .

"Young lady," Dad said coldly, once he had shaken off two biting little piranhas and slammed the door behind him, "allow me to say that if you were still receiving an allowance from me, it would be severely docked as of this very moment."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever," I snorted between tears. "I- oh, wow Dad - I mean, Mr. Jones, or whoever - I just never thought- I mean- Dad- what were they playing, some kind of frontier game?"

"I believe," he bit off, "that it is some form of mating ritual."

"A mating rit- Daddy!" I gasped, scandalized, but he simply directed my attention to the interior of the room, where a very angry-looking little girl in a white T-shirt five sizes too big for her was holding a bouquet of dandelions and glaring balefully after him.

"Oh." I said quietly. "Um- I don't think that's very legal, Daddy."

"Sydney! I know it's not legal! They were trying to rope me and drag me to the altar! This is getting out of hand! We have to put a stop to this tonight, or YOU will have to explain to Sloane that I couldn't come home because I had to spend my honeymoon in an after school daycare." He shot a nervous glance in at the thwarted bride-to-be, who was now eating her bouquet. "Or juvenile hall . . ."

I smirked, and then wiped it off with an effort.

"Fine. I was about to say the same thing anyway, since there's this kid who's all but got us figured out."

"He _what_?"

"He accused me of being a secret agent."

"Sydney, you aren't supposed to go around entertaining these children with stories of your exploits in Moscow, or wherever! You are supposed to be playing a part!"

"I have been, Dad," I said patiently. "But this kid - this T.J. - is some kind of . . . I don't know. I mean, he came right out and said the only reason I've survived the kindergarteners this far is because I'm a spy, or whatever."

"Well," Dad frowned grudgingly, "I guess there will always be that risk. But what I was about to say is, I think we'll need help on this one. Now, obviously I can't ask SD-6 for help, or else they'll wonder what you're doing up here, working - illegally, I might add - on your vacation time. So we'll have to apply to the CIA for assistance, and it's definitely going to have to be low-profile. It will probably have to go over Devlin's head- or, more aptly, under his nose. We'll need an agent who wouldn't be missed for field assignments, and who would come at a moment's notice."

"You're talking about Vaughn," I guessed, and Dad looked at me, mildly affronted.

"Did I say that? No, I did not. But, now that you've mentioned it, I suppose that he would fit the bill perfectly. You'll call him, then?"

"Me?!"

"Well, I can hardly call him, can I? I have Sloane and a brainwashing Russian agent breathing down my neck."

"Dad, I'm not so sure you want to put me in direct contact with Vaughn at the moment. I'm still a little peeved at him for sending me here in the first place, and if I actually started talking to him, I'd probably say a bunch of things I would regret."

"Well, we really do need him, Sydney. I am asking you to put aside your personal misgivings, call him up, and ask him as nicely as you can to come up here. If it's you who's asking him, he won't say no."

"And exactly what, Dad," I asked suspiciously, "is that supposed to mean?"

Dad, however, simply studied the ceiling tiles and whistled casually, so I threw up my hands in exasperation.

"Fine, I'll call him on my cell, and see what he tells me to do. For now, though . . ." I peeked into the room, and saw that my father's intended had finished her dandelion salad, and was gumming on her T-shirt with voracity.

"Just tell her it was never meant to be."

"Well, thank-you, Ann Landers," Dad frowned, but I was already running back to my classroom, hoping that the kids hadn't all killed each other yet.

000

They hadn't, though some of them had come pretty close. I knew it had been wrong to leave them alone, but I figured they could have adapted if they'd had to- kind of like in Lord of the Flies, when all the little boys became savages and killed each other.

Erm- okay, not the best analogy. But Dad, I knew, needed me more, and the kids, as it turned out, were almost disappointed when I got back. They had been trying to start a fire under a pair of smaller children they had bound to a stake in the middle of a pile of book bags. Once I had freed the captives, and chased them all away from my battered, paint and paste-smeared desk, I unlocked the fireproof safe that was situated under it and drew out my cell phone.

Dialing Vaughn's number, I listened as it purred twice before he picked up.

"Vaughn here."

"Hi, Vaughn, it's me."

Ungrammatical, perhaps, but I got my point across.

"Oh- hey. Is something wrong?"

"No, I- well, yeah. Sort of." I glanced around me, and decided to be frank with him. "Vaughn, it's like one unending _migraine_ here! I'm surrounded by children, and it's _all your fault_!"

"Oh, I- I'm sorry, Sydney."

He did sound guilty, but I told myself that was probably because he knew I could kick his butt home sideways any day of the week, and that he would be alone with me when I was debriefed. Still, his next words fit in perfectly with what I needed to hear, so I found myself softening toward him, though mostly against my will.

"Is there anything I could do to help?"

"Well," I said sweetly, "it's funny you should mention that. You see, Dad and I were just talking with each other, and we decided that, with what Dad has learned so far, it would be best if we got some extra help on this. And we were wondering if maybe you-"

"Sydney, you know I can't do that."

"Why not? You've done it before."

"Well- yeah, I guess, but that was different. You were in the same city. You were in the same _state_."

"Details," I sniffed. "Look, there's got to be some sort of virus going around the office, right? You catch it, take a day or two off, and fly up here to help us."

"A day or two?! Sydney. I can't just-"

"Vaughn, come on. You owe me."

"I do not-"

"Yes, you do. When you get here, and you see these kids, you will see that you owe me way more than I could ever get our of you, so you'd better do what you can while you can. You can be my brother, or Dad's son, or something- I don't know. And frankly, I don't care. All I care is that you get up here, and help us, because these _kids_ are _driving_ me CRAZY!"

I chose to end on that ladylike note, snapping my cell shut so viciously I almost cracked the plastic casing. I hadn't realised that the kids were listening until I looked up, and found them all ranged around my desk, standing in complete silence, and staring up at me with a sort of mute awe.

"Big puh-son angwy," observed one little boy solemnly, and all the other children nodded in grave agreement, thumbs creeping into their mouths. They all retreated quietly to the craft tables to eat paste, and I didn't hear a peep out of them until the end of the day.

I tell you, sometimes all it takes is a little motivation.

000

000

Well? Will Vaughn gather his courage and come to do his patriotic duty? And if so, will he survive kindergarten? Will the Bristows (and maybe Vaughn) prevent Mr. Smith from unleashing his deadly weapon of destruction on the unsuspecting masses? Do you want to know? Do you even care?! If so, tell me!

Thanks also to everybody who's reviewed so far, and please, don't anybody worry about stepping on my toes with constructive criticism in regards to writing techniques. I plan to do this for a living, and right now, you guys are the closest thing to an editor I have, so if you catch a run-on, loose end, or something like that, then by all means, point it out to me. I write to improve! And to make myself happy, of course . . .

If you're looking for disclaimers, they aren't here, remember? They're at the end of the first chapter, and will also appear at the end of the second. Watch for it, and them!


	3. Chapter Three

Third chapter, more to come. How much more? Dunno. Not an excessive amount, but two more chapters wouldn't be an unrealistic expectation. Hope you enjoy this one- it's really quite short, but I felt it had to be cut off where it is, and that means the next one will come that much sooner, so- yeah.

Read, okay? And review! PLEASE!!

000

_Sydney_

000

I chose to end on that ladylike note, snapping my cell shut so viciously I almost cracked the plastic casing. I hadn't realised that the kids were listening until I looked up, and found them all ranged around my desk, standing in complete silence, and staring up at me with a sort of mute awe.

"Big puh-son angwy," observed one little boy solemnly, and all the other children nodded in grave agreement, thumbs creeping into their mouths. They all retreated quietly to the craft tables to eat paste, and I didn't hear a peep out of them until the end of the day.

I tell you, sometimes all it takes is a little motivation.

000

I met up with Dad outside the kindergarten building during the afternoon recess to give him an update. I laid stress on Vaughn's reluctance, but Dad seemed to consider it unimportant.

"He'll come," he said with quiet confidence that rather unnerved me. How could he be so sure?

Almost as if reading my thoughts, Dad answered. "If you called me, and told me you needed me to come, I would."

I raised an eyebrow, but chose to make no comment. Instead I gestured to the children, and said that I was going to see if I couldn't control my crowd. Dad gave me his fervent blessing, and as he watched me go, I felt as if there should be a rather adventurous sort of soundtrack playing in the background- you know, brave young heroine sets out to conquer the savage beast type of music, or something of that sort.

Instead, though, what I got was T.J.

He snuck up behind me while I was freeing a little boy from a pipe into which his larger friends had stuffed him, and tapped me on the shoulder.

"Yes?" I turned around.

"What is it?" he asked, and I blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your mission. What is it? Maybe I could help. I've been coming here since I was in kindergarten- I know everything there is to know about the school, and the teachers, and everything."

"I'm sure you do, T.J, but I really don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on, Miss Carter! You and I both know what I'm talking about! I could help you, Miss Carter- honest, I could. If," he amended, with sudden suspicion in his voice, "you're doing something for the good of our country."

"I'm filling young minds with valuable knowledge," I deadpanned, prying Biter Girl loose from where she had attached herself to my ankle, "what more do you want?"

"Miss Carter- " T.J. began in a martyred tone of voice, then his eyes suddenly narrowed, "_if_ that's your real name - why can't you just work with me? I may just be a kid, but I can do plenty."

"And I don't doubt that, T.J." I promise him. "But why don't you look at it this way? Even supposing, for the sake of argument, I was a secret agent, and actually had the authority to allow you to help me, I don't think I would. As you say, you're just a kid, and though I can't claim to know much about how spies operate, I don't think that they make a habit of dragging innocent people into what I imagine would be a life filled with deception and danger."

_Wow,_ I thought, amazed, _it almost sounded like I believed that_.

"Well, it wouldn't have to be a habit," T.J. fairly pleaded, "it could just be this once."

"T.J.!" I threw up my hands in exasperation. "You're impossible!"

"I know," he said, with a kind of sheepish pride. "My parents tell me that all the time."

"I can see they might," I said dryly, "you're rather precocious, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. But I keep busy."

"I'll bet you do," my mouth twitched in spite of myself as I imagined all the trouble he likely got into with his teachers. Those who are ahead of their time are often considered to be completely lost by those behind them.

"So- you aren't gonna tell me, are you?" he asked gloomily, and I smiled.

"T.J. why don't you believe me? I'm just an ordinary woman with an ordinary life, and an ordinary job."

"And I'll bet you can say it in ten different languages, and still almost make yourself believe it," he accused, and I shook my head, amazed. This kid was more stubborn than any interrogator I had ever come up against before, and if that fact alone wasn't enough to amaze me, how about the fact that my cover had been blown by a ten-year-old? It was all I could do not to call Vaughn back, and tell him to bring along a recruitment questionnaire as well. In a very short time, T.J. would be more than able to do his country proud. Of course, he'd have to start tying his sneakers, first, but the kid had potential. I could tell.

"Look, T.J.," I heard myself saying, "you have a fantastic imagination. Really. You should be a writer when you grow up. But for now, you should probably keep your speculations to yourself, in case they were to offend somebody."

"Is that a threat?" he asked hopefully, and I shook my head, still smiling.

"No, T.J. it's just an observation. Now, where are your friends? Why don't you go and play with them?"

"You're trying to get rid of me!" he enthused. "Am I getting too close?"

"Only if garlic bothers you," I said gravely. "I had a Caesar salad for lunch, so if you can smell my breath from where you are, yeah, I suppose that I'd advise stepping back a bit."

"Ha, ha," he scowled. "Are all spies this witty?"

"I wouldn't know," I said pointedly. "Now, seriously, why don't you go play with your friends?"

"Aw, 'cause Spinelli got ticked off at me for pushing this spy thing so hard, and she told me to take a hike until I'd gotten it out of my system," he scowled, studying the scuffed toe of one sneaker. Almost in spite of myself, I felt my heart go out to him. It wasn't his fault that he was actually right, and I just wasn't allowed to tell him so.

"T.J.," I said quietly, "do you want to know something? Just because you aren't on the right track here, doesn't mean it's wrong for you to be so determined to find out the truth. I think that someday, you yourself would make a great spy."

"Really?" there was a gleam of interest in his eyes as I nodded solemnly.

"Oh, yeah. I mean, here I am, just patiently telling you the truth over and over again, and you just keep on pushing. If I were really a spy, don't you think I'd be starting to feel a little pressure right now? You're really good at this."

"Thanks," he shrugged, "I got my technique off of Law and Order."

"Oh." I blinked. "They're good, huh?"

"Some of the best," he said proudly.

"Right." I took a deep breath. "Well, why don't you go back to Spinelli, tell her you've gotten this all out of your system, and just concentrate on school for now? There'll be plenty of time for spy stuff when you're older, don't you think?"

"I guess," he sighed. "Sorry about all of this, Miss Carter. I guess you must think that all Maryland kids are pretty stupid, now that you've talked to me."

"No, T.J., of course not!" I protested, and he smiled a bit.

"Yeah, right. Bet when you were a kid you were way smarter than me. Bet all the kids where you were born were way smarter than me. I mean, kids in Maryland must be total idiots compared to kids in - well- where were you born, again?"

I blinked, my mind racing furiously. Had Vaughn told me that? Would I give T.J. one answer, only to find out that Miss Finster could give him another?

Too late I realised that Miss Finster would probably never tell T.J. where I had been born. Too late I realised that the acceptable time for a response had passed, and I was still standing, silent, as T.J. stared at me with an expression of satisfaction smeared all over his face.

"Yeah," he said contentedly, "I have a lot of friends in that part of the world, Miss Carter. See you around!"

With that, whistling to himself, he jogged across the playground, leaving me to wonder what the entrance level age cutoff limit was for the CIA anyway. Because if a ten-year-old had any chance at all of being eligible for admission, then the rest of us had better start looking for work elsewhere, since with a kid like that around, not one of us would ever stand a chance.

000

"What do you mean, he _knows_, Sydney?" Dad hissed, as I met with him once the bell had rung. "You're telling me you told him that he was _right_?! Did you give him a _lollipop_ for being so smart, Sydney? Is _that_ what you did?!"

"No, Dad- Mr. Jones, I did _not_ give him a _lollipop_!" I exclaimed, offended. "I have had the exact same training as you have. He caught me up, is all, and in doing so confirmed what he suspected."

"An eight-year-old caught you up? You're a trained spy! How can an eight-year-old boy-"

"Ten, Dad,"

"Ten, then- how can a ten-year-old boy catch you in a lie?! The CIA is going to love this- their agents' covers being blown by elementary school children! Oh, yes, this is going to go over big at Langley. I can see it now."

"Oh, Dad, relax. He's ten! Who's going to listen to him? And when Vaughn gets here, we can figure out what to do."

"I know what to do," Dad said, getting that look I didn't like, and making me gasp.

"Daddy, you are so evil! He's a little _boy_!"

"So are some of them," Dad jerked his thumb towards the classroom, "and do you know what I feel like doing to _them_?"

"Singing nursery rhymes?" I asked hopefully, but the glare I got effectively disabused me of such notions. Instead, I continued to plead the case of a kid I had to admit I was growing rather fond of.

"Anyway, Dad, T.J. is bigger. He's more mature. He's not like them."

"Well, one would hope not." Dad snorted, glancing back once more. "How does one get them to stop hurting each other- even for a minute? And I am _not_," he added severely, seeing a sudden look of hope in my face, "willing to accept Mr. Smith's contraption as a viable solution to the problem, young lady, so don't even think about it."

"Sorry," I said meekly. "Well, you could try to tell them stories."

"Stories?"

"Yeah, you know- stories."

Dad considered.

"I don't know any stories."

"Oh, come on, now, Dad!" I said in disbelief, "You've got to know _some_!"

Dad reflected a moment longer, then shook his head. "No. None."

"Oh, for crying out- well, sing to them, then."

"Sydney?" he looked scared.

"Sing." I repeated firmly. "You know- London Bridge; Mary Had a Little Lamb; I'm a Little Teapot. Things like that. You know all of those- you used to sing them to me every night."

"Well, yes, Sydney, but you were my child, and- well- I'm a Little _Teapot_?!"

"There, Dad, you have the first bar and a half down already! The rest should be a snap! Now, go in there, and sing!" I gave him an uncompromising push towards the door, and he gave me one last baleful look before he disappeared into the chaos.

"You couldn't be like your mother, could you? No, you just had to go and turn out like me."

Then he was swallowed up by the utter confusion, and, humming cheerfully to myself, I skipped down to hall to pry my kids out from under the craft tables, and rescue the little boy they were feeding glitter to. Life was pretty darn good.

000

By the time I got home to my little broom closet that evening, I was wrung into a limp nothing, but I was still intact, and that, I figured, had to count for something. Yes, the kids had been as - well, shall we say exuberant? - as usual, but at least I had withstood their attack, and was still in possession of all my faculties. Yes, Dad was still angry at me, but because he had actually taken my advice and sung to them, his throat had been too hoarse at the end of the day for him to do anything more than glare at me, and squeak a good night. And somehow, that squeak nullified the glare without any problem at all- actually, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.

I ordered supper in, since my kitchen was barely big enough for a stove, fridge, and itty-bitty square foot of countertop and doll-sized sink, and so certainly wasn't about to admit me. Then, as I sat on my single arm chair in the little corner that passed for my living room to eat my Chinese food, I mulled over what was likely to happen next.

The really terrible thing with kindergarten is, you never know what that will be. Even the stock market on the verge of a Depression is more certain than a kindergarten class, and it's rather unnerving. Still, I'm used to unpredictable situations, so I didn't find it impossible to relax over my chicken fried rice and sketch out a rough strategy. It was really quite simple, actually- stay alive. And, if I have to die, let it be because I was killed by Mr. Smith, not the kids, because somehow it looks a lot better on your file to say you died in the line of duty, rather than kindergarten kids.

That done, I polished off my supper, dumped everything into my miniature trash can, and went to change into my pyjamas. Yes, it was not yet dark out, and yes, most of my students would probably not be going to bed for ages to come, but I wasn't used to them, so I felt perfectly justified in admitting to myself that I was bone-tired, and ready for bed.

Sliding in between my bureau and the bed, I pulled back the covers on the little cot, scrambled in under them, and fell asleep before my head it hit the pillow. I was rudely awoken not more than three hours later to find the shadow of a man looming over me.

Nerves of steel nothing. I had been teaching kindergarten for two days, and I had funerals on the brain.

I screamed.

000

000

You know who it is, right? Or maybe you don't, and you just think you do. For all you know, it could really be- Sloane! Mwahahaha . . .

If you're looking for disclaimers, they aren't here, remember? They're at the end of the first chapter, and will also appear at the end of the next, or whenever this thing ends (it looks like it will be longer than I initially anticipated. Hmm. Not like _that's_ ever happened before) Watch for it, and them!


	4. Chapter Four

Fourth chapter, and I am sooo sorry it took me this long to get it up, but school and the nightmare of The Quizzes That Just Kept Coming conspired to keep me away. Anyway, one more chapter to come, maybe two- I won't know for sure until I reach the end of this one. However many more there are left, though, I hope you'll keep on reviewing. That's what's keeping me writing!

So read, okay? And enjoy!

000

_Sydney_

000

Sliding in between my bureau and the bed, I pulled back the covers on the little cot, scrambled in under them, and fell asleep before my head it hit the pillow. I was rudely awoken not more than three hours later to find the shadow of a man looming over me.

Nerves of steel nothing. I had been teaching kindergarten for two days, and I had funerals on the brain.

I screamed.

000

"Sydney!" he hissed frantically, as I began to kick violently out, landing one or two well-placed blows somewhere in the region of his upper chest, "Sydney, stop it! Shh, it's just me!"

I stopped and blinked, shocked, in the gloom at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Vaughn?"

"Yeah."

With that confirmation, I landed another kick, decidedly much below his chest region, and he doubled over with a grunt.

"What was that for?" he squeaked, when he finally regained he ability to draw breath.

"For this!" I shrieked, waving my arm about and promptly banging it on the wall beside me. "Ouch."

"Are you hurt?" he asked, straightening up with an effort.

"No, it's nothing, I- for _this_, Vaughn!" I got back on track quickly. "This cell of a residence, and the maniacal children I have to deal with, and for making my father sing I'm a Little Teapot! That is wrong on _so_ many levels, Vaughn, and _that_ was why I kicked you."

"Oh," he said apologetically. "Well- I came, didn't I?"

"Yes," I softened slightly, "I suppose you did. But what are you planning on doing now that you're here?"

"Well," he said hesitantly, "I was hoping that you might have a suggestion or two for me. I figured I'd get out here, and then play it by ear once I'd arrived."

"Well, _that's_ a solid plan if ever I heard one," I grumbled, sitting up a bit more, and pulling the blanket up around my shoulders. "We'll be home by noon tomorrow."

"Look, Sydney," Vaughn said plaintively, "I'm not exactly at my most creative right now. I don't fake sick very well, and Devlin was pretty suspicious when I asked him for a few days off. I tried to cough, then, to convince him, but I can't do that, either, so I ended up choking, and- well, let's say that the end result was basically me, doubled over, with Devlin and three clerks thumping me on the back until I got my airways open again. The good part was that by then I looked really unhealthy, so I got out, but you'll never know what I went through to get that plane ticket."

"I'd trade it for what I've been going through," I said positively. "I'm quite sure I would. Now, I have no plan at all, but I guess Dad ought to, since it was his idea to get you up here in the first place, so we'll ask him tomorrow. For now- well, you're tired," I admitted grudgingly, "so I'll sleep in the armchair, and you can have the bed."

"Oh, no, Sydney," he refused quickly. "I'll take the armchair."

"Don't be silly," I yawned, "we can't both fit on the armchair."

I tried to stand up, then, but found that I couldn't, since Vaughn was already occupying the only available floor space. He was also smiling, and shaking his head.

"Stay here," he said firmly. "Get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning."

And, because I was too tired to argue, and quite frankly had no desire to, I let it go at that.

000

The next morning over bowls of corn flakes we held on our laps (I sat in the chair while Vaughn perched on what was meant to be an end table, but, once a picture frame had been removed, doubled as a decent stool) we discussed Vaughn's cover story.

"I like brother best," I insisted. "I mean, there's a certain amount of potential for family resemblance, and it would explain why you're tagging along to work with me."

"What, your boyfriend can't follow you wherever you go?" he shot back. "I mean, if I were really your boyfriend, I wouldn't let you out of my sight for a moment."

I rolled my eyes. "Vaughn, if you come to school, and tell my principal that you are my boyfriend, and you want to spend time alone with me in a class full of impressionable little children, what do you think he's going to say?"

Vaughn considered this, then sighed.

"Point taken. But what if that kid you were telling me about - what was his name, T.J.? - finds out that we don't even know when each other was born?"

"And you think he wouldn't think it was strange I didn't know when my boyfriend was born, too? How's this- we're twins. We were born January first, 1971. Lots of ones in there, Vaughn. Should be easy to remember."

"You are aware, though," he said dubiously, "that you just made yourself three years older than you really are?"

"Of course I am," I said impatiently. "Now, just say our parents names were- were Jack and Jane, okay? And we grew up in New York City. I don't think even T.J. could think of any other questions that couldn't be explained away by memory lapse. Now, are you done with your corn flakes?"

"Sure, take them," he sighed, passing the bowl to me. "I lost my appetite anyway."

"Why?"

"I just realised your father is now mine, and so has the power to ground me for life. And, when he finds out I came up here without so much as a shred of a plan or a cover story, that's probably exactly what he's going to do."

I laughed, scraping the corn flakes into the bathroom toilet, since there wasn't any room in the garbage can (I'd filled it up with two empty Chinese food boxes the night before).

"Oh, don't be silly," I chided him, "he'll be so thrilled to see you, he won't even think about asking if you have a plan or not."

"I hope you're right," Vaughn sighed, as I met him at the front door and bent to tug on my shoes, "I really hope you're right."

000

"What's the plan?" was the first thing Dad said when we met him as we approached the building from the parking lot.

"Dad," I frowned, "you could at least say hello."

His face was rigid as he answered me.

"Hello. What's the plan?"

"Oh, Dad, you can be so rude sometimes!" I complained, and his eyes narrowed.

"Sydney, I tipped me over and poured me out no fewer than three hundred and fifty-eight times yesterday. It was a nightmare, and if you think I am going to go through that one second longer than is absolutely imperative, you are mad."

"Fine," I frowned, "fine. Tell you what- Vaughn was going to be my brother, but why don't you make him your son, instead? We'll say that he came up from LA to see you, and wanted to meet the kids you teach."

"No, he didn't," Dad shook his head energetically. "My son would be smart. He would be heading for Europe the moment I invited him to come and sit in on my kindergarten class. This cannot be my son."

"Well, just pretend," I insisted. "He can help you, Dad."

"He hasn't got any field training!" Dad protested.

"Dad, this isn't exactly guerrilla warfare, here."

"No," Dad agreed, "it's far, far worse."

"Okay," Vaughn frowned, "starting to get nervous, here."

"There, you see, he's scared already!" Dad said triumphantly.

"That's because you're scaring him!" I fired back. "Now take him into your classroom, and let him help! We'll discuss the plan at recess, okay? I have to go- that's one of my kids." So saying, I hurried away to meet Biter Girl and her mother.

"She's feeling a little temperamental today," the woman said, nervously brushing back a strand of hair with Band-Aid covered fingers, "so if you could maybe keep your hands away, it would be- um- for the best."

"Sure," I smiled, and nodded to Biter Girl from a safe distance. She bared her teeth at me, and I cringed.

"Yes, well, why don't we head inside . . ?" I invited faintly, and so began my third day on my own personal Road Trip to Insanity.

By the time all the kids had arrived, I still had five minutes before the bell rang, and beginning to wonder if I would possibly be able to survive yet another mad dash to the door to keep a runaway from breaking free. I was just coming to conclusion that I would not, when a familiar pigtailed head appeared in the window.

"Spinelli!" I said, surprised. "Come in."

She did, but only because she had been pushed inside by T.J. She turned around to make a face at him, but he didn't notice, so intent was he on starting to grill me immediately.

"Did you know there's another new teacher?" he demanded instantly, and I affected an expression of mild surprise.

"I hardly even know all of the old ones yet, so I wouldn't be likely to notice a new one," I pointed out. "Is there a new teacher, then?"

"Yes. And that makes four in two weeks. I find that highly suspicious."

"Teej," Spinelli complained, "you found the substitute janitor's mis-matched socks suspicious. Why don't you give it a rest, and stop bothering Miss Carter?"

"Aren't you worried?" T.J. pressed, focusing on me and ignoring his friend completely.

"About what?" I wondered, booting an inquisitive, sticky-fingered hand away from the garbage can.

"The new teacher! You can't expect me to believe that it's a coincidence that the Third Street kindergarten suddenly gets four new teachers, all within the course of two weeks! I mean, we're lucky if we get one new teacher a year! Nobody is stupid enough to come teach kindergarten!"

"I," I said frostily, "resent that remark."

"Sorry," he said automatically. "But, I mean- well, geez! I was just thinking, if he isn't on your side, shouldn't you be worried that he's an enemy agent? I mean, do you want me to check him out for you?"

"Thank-you, no," I said dryly. "I think you had better concentrate on your school work."

"But-" T.J. started to protest, and then, mercifully, was interrupted by the bell.

"There, James Bond, that's your exit cue," Spinelli frowned, grabbing his sleeve and hauling him towards the door. "Come on. Sorry, Miss Carter," she added apologetically, "I keep meaning to buy a leash for him, but I never get around to it."

I smiled, watching her haul him out the door, but no sooner had they disappeared than did T.J. apparently break free, and come screeching back around the corner.

"I know what he's doing!" he announced breathlessly. "Smith! I know it, Miss Carter- about the machine, and the brainwashing, and all of it. I can help you, I honestly- ahh! Spinelli, get off of me!"

But she didn't listen, and this time was successful in hauling him away. I was grateful for that- it saved them from seeing the involuntary look of shock on my face as I sat down hard on a chair that wasn't there.

From my position on the floor, I glared at the trio of kids who had captured my seat, and were using it in an - unsuccessful - attempt to reach the bars on the windows. Then I forgot about my obligations as caregiver, and focused on the more selfish and imminent problem at hand.

How the heck had T.J. found that out? Was it, I wondered wildly, possible that he was working for K-Directorate as well? Okay, you can laugh if you like, but I was seriously panicked. I was so scared that Mr. Smith might somehow have overheard what he'd said, too, that I was tempted to run straight to Dad and Vaughn, and tell them to pack their bags and leave the kindergarteners to fend for themselves.

Once I had conquered that urge, I struggled to my feet, and tried to assess the situation a little better, since the air near the floor was not very good. Still, all I drew was a blank. Oh, and blood- I scratched my elbow on the corner of my desk as I stood. Otherwise, though, it all came to zip- I honestly had no idea what to do.

So I did what any girl in my position would have done.

I went running to my father.

000

Dad, in hindsight, was actually far more supportive than I had any right to expect him to be. At the time, though, I was scared, and so thought that he was being deliberately uncooperative.

"Dad, don't you get it?!" I hissed, trying to ignore the curious stares of several of the kindergarten kids Vaughn was unable to pry off of the doorframe, or lure away with the promise of sugar, "He knows! He knows everything! We have to protect him!"

"Sydney, you don't know that he knows _anything_, much less everything. And we certainly can't take steps to protect him- that would tip our hand."

"So you're saying we just let this kid play his little fantasy game until he finds out too late that it isn't a game- that it's real?" I fumed.

"Sydney," Dad said patiently, "look around you. You're standing in a finger-painted hallway surrounded by knee-high savages, wearing something with blue and white flowers on it that probably went out of style a month or two before you were born. This isn't real. None of it is. I really think that this T.J. boy will be quite safe."

"Dad-" I frowned, but was cut off by a frightened plea from Vaughn.

"Jack, I can't hold 'em off much longer! They're after the doughnuts, Jack! Keep 'em back!"

"Don't give in!" Dad thundered over his shoulder in an inspirational fashion before turning back to me. "Look, Sweetheart, I have to go. But don't worry too much about this boy, all right? If he's half as bright as you say he is, I think he'll be smart enough to keep his nose clean."

"No, Dad, I don't think you get it. I'm really worried-"

"Jack!" Vaughn was going under. "Jack, save me!"

"I'm coming!" Dad hollered, spinning around and sprinting into the fray, kicking kindergarteners off of my poor handler, whom he lifted bodily to his feet, and from whose trembling hands he managed to pry the somewhat tattered doughnut box. Then he and Vaughn both beat back the mob, who had fixated on a prize and were not willing to give in so easily as all that. This left me nothing to do but mope my way back to my own kids, who were trying to set fire to the drapes by rubbing the drumsticks together.

Once I had rescued us all from a fiery death, I tried to arrange them all on the floor and read a story. However, after finding no books who hadn't had at least half of their pages consumed by ravenous students, I gave up on that, and announced a game of free-for-all tag. Then I locked the door to the hallway, shut myself in the supply cupboard, and counted down the seconds to recess.

000

Recess, however, did not come as soon as it might have. Instead, T.J. came first, in through the window, or so I was told. All I heard at the time were an assortment of war-whoops from the children, and his hasty promise that he came in peace. At the sound of his voice, of course, I struggled out of the closet, and asked him casually what I could do for him.

"Though," I added, squinting suspiciously, "aren't you supposed to be in class right now?"

"Oh, well, sure, technically," T.J. brushed a higher education aside with a flick of his wrist. "But I mean, aren't you also not supposed to be here? Technically, that is. And aren't you technically supposed to be coming up with a scheme to foil Smith's fiendish plan?"

"Do people actually _say_ 'fiendish' anymore?" I asked dubiously, but T.J. was not prepared to debate pop culture with me. He had a much higher agenda in mind.

"Look, Miss Carter," he said gravely, "I need to talk to you. I mean, seriously."

"Then I take it you're going to drop your wild accusations?" I smiled, but he remained perfectly serious.

"Miss Carter, could we step outside?" he asked. "Just for a second, I promise."

I eyed him warily, then decided that I could always continue to deny everything. It had been working fairly well so far, right? So I nodded, and he gallantly held open the door for me to proceed through before following, and slamming it shut just before one of the kids made it through.

"Now," he said, "would you mind telling me what, exactly, you are doing here if it isn't Smith you're after?"

"I am teaching kindergarten," I said calmly.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Then tell me. In what year did you get your teaching license?"

"I-" I blanked. Vaughn never told me that. I began plotting anew the many wonderful ways in which I might kill the man.

"And my teacher says _I'm_ unprepared for exams," T.J. sighed, and I had to crack a tiny smile.

"T.J.-"

"Oh, come on, Miss Carter," he urged, "what harm can it do to tell me all about it? I might even be able to help you out. I mean, he's obviously going to have his class under complete control by the second recess, so if you're going to make a move, it will have to be by the first. Otherwise, he'll start in on Mr. Jones' class, and then on yours."

"I am sure you mean well, but-"

"No, Miss Carter, seriously. You need to realise something- it's today, or it's never. We have to find this machine, and we have to figure out how to reverse its effect. Gretchen could do that easily- in fact, she would welcome the opportunity. Do you have anybody on your team who could do that? Or, more pertinently, do you have a team at all? Are Mr. Jones and the new guy innocent bystanders after all? Of course, that would have to mean that you have simply decided, out of the blue, to call the former 'Dad' . . ."

"You heard us talking?" I asked, horrified, and he smirked.

"Nope. I'm just a really good guesser."

Was it possible to want to kill a kid and kiss him all at once? Because if it was, I did. Instead I did neither, and put on my best teacher-frown.

"Theodore, I don't find that funny. Now, just because I happen to be- erm- related to . . ." I trailed off, and realised that it was hopeless. With a heavy sigh, I headed towards Dad's classroom and banged on the door, whose window had been covered from within with many sheets of black construction paper, making it impossible to see what was going on inside.

There was a long pause, and then Vaughn stuck his nose cautiously around the frame.

"Yeah?"

"Send Dad out. I need to speak with him."

"One second, please."

The nose was withdrawn, the door shut, and, a brief while later, re-opened to allow my father to pass through. He was wearing a pair of ladies' heels and a silken nightie over his khakis and shirt. He had been given a floppy straw hat to wear, Crayola-red lips, and there was blue paint smeared all over his eyelids.

"Dress up, Daddy?" I squeaked, and masterfully maintained a grip on my laughter.

"You think this is funny?" Dad scowled. "You should see your handler."

"Oh, hey, let me!" T.J. begged, and headed for the door, but I easily restrained him.

"You, young man," I said severely, "are going nowhere but back to your building once you have explained to this man that none of what I am about to tell him was my fault. You understand me?"

T.J. nodded, and approached Dad with a sort of hesitation.

"Um- Ma'am?"

Dad's murderous glare would have been enough to quell even the bravest man on Earth, but T.J., miraculously, simply blushed.

"Sorry, Sir. A little ill-placed humour. I- could we sit down?"

"No." Dad said coldly, and T.J. nodded.

"Right, then. Well- it's like this."

And, so saying, he gave Dad a complete run-down of his interrogation tactics.

Dad remained stony-faced throughout, though I was hard put to do the same. He just isn't the silk nightie type, you know? But my years of training served me in good stead, and I managed to remain more or less stiff-lipped until T.J. had finished his spiel.

"Well," Dad said at last, "I don't deny a need for urgency," and here he glanced down at his outfit with slight uncertainty, "but I am reluctant, Theodore, to place civilians in danger. For that reason-"

"Sir," T.J. cut in, "with all due respect? I wouldn't be the one in trouble if I went in there. You would. I mean, if you can't even hold them off for one session of dress up, what chance do you have against an army under evil influence?"

Dad hesitated, pondering this, and as he did a frightened moan went up from behind the closed door.

"Mr. Bristow; Jack." Vaughn begged, sounding like a mere shadow of his former self, "Please. Let him help. I am begging you."

Dad sighed.

"All right, then, Theodore, we accept your offer of assistance. If you and these friends of yours could meet us promptly at the beginning of first recess under that little tree they all like to climb so much, perhaps we can go over our plan of attack."

A sigh of absolute rapture went up from behind Dad, and I shot him a curious glance.

"Dad? What are they doing to him in there?"

Dad's face stiffened once more.

"I'll tell you when you're older," he mumbled, and ducked back in before I could quiz him further.

In fact, he wouldn't tell me for many years to come, and when he did, I found out why. It's the sort of thing you can ever really be ready for, and I fully understood Dad's wish to protect me from it. The children, in their perusal of the dress-up trunk, had actually found a Barney costume. Poor Vaughn had then been forced to parade around in it, singing 'I Love You' until he dropped from exhaustion.

I lost my desire for revenge on him from that moment on- when a man has seen the worst life has to dish out, there really isn't anything more you can do to him that he can't take.

000

000

Yes, I know it was a little more serious than the first two (much more than I would have liked. The idea of Vaughn as Barney disturbed me so greatly, I actually considered upping the rating) but the next one will be the weirdest blend of drama and humour I have ever attempted, so if you thought this was bad? Well- prepare for worse.

Again, too, I am so sorry that it took me this long to get it posted. I kept meaning and meaning to update, but life kept getting in the way. Anyway, hopefully I'll be a little quicker on the next (most likely final) chapter, and hopefully you'll shower me with reviews in appreciation . . !


	5. Chapter Five

Fifth chapter, and final one, unless you count an epilogue as a chapter, and there will certainly be an epilogue. Thanks so much to everybody who has reviewed so far- you really pushed me to get this done. I was actually surprised at how many reviews I got for something so silly as this, which I only typed up because I thought I'd get a kick out of it. I never thought so many other people would, too!

I have broken with the Syd POV briefly, since I wanted to show how each of our favourite spies got inside the kindergarten building, but I don't think it's too confusing. If I'm wrong, please let me know, and even if I'm not, let me know anyway- reviews are wonderful!

I hope that this chapter isn't as weird as I think it will be, but odds are that it will be, so just bear with me, all right? Read, now, please, and I hope you enjoy it!

000

_Sydney_

000

Dad sighed.

"All right, then, Theodore, we accept your offer of assistance. If you and these friends of yours could meet us promptly at the beginning of first recess under that little tree they all like to climb so much, perhaps we can go over our plan of attack."

A sigh of absolute rapture went up from behind Dad, and I shot him a curious glance.

"Dad? What are they doing to him in there?"

Dad's face stiffened once more.

"I'll tell you when you're older," he mumbled, and ducked back in before I could quiz him further.

In fact, he wouldn't tell me for many years to come, and when he did, I found out why. It's the sort of thing you can ever really be ready for, and I fully understood Dad's wish to protect me from it. The children, in their perusal of the dress-up trunk, had actually found a Barney costume. Poor Vaughn had then been forced to parade around in it, singing 'I Love You' until he dropped from exhaustion.

I lost my desire for revenge on him from that moment on- when a man has seen the worst life has to dish out, there really isn't anything more you can do to him that he can't take.

000

Vaughn, Dad and I met T.J. and his still-incredulous group exactly where and when Dad had planned. Dad's eyes still bore the faintest suggestion of watercolours, and Vaughn was understandably pale after his ordeal, but otherwise we were able to field the questions lobbed at us with remarkable ease.

"So T.J. was right?" Spinelli asked, disbelieving. "All along, you really were a spy?"

"Yes," I admitted, blushing, and she shook her head in self-disgust.

"You'd think that after all this time, I'd have known that he would be right about something like this. I mean, he always is. But no, I just couldn't believe him . . ."

T.J. graciously forgave her before Gretchen spoke up, curious.

"Forgive me if this is somewhat forward of me, Miss Carter, but as a concerned American citizen, I really do feel that I must know- are you working for us, or against us?"

I glanced over at Vaughn as he answered before I could even open my mouth.

"They dressed me up as Barney," he rasped, his eyes still haunted. "Is there any other country on Earth that would inspire such foolhardy, self-sacrificing loyalty in its citizens? Or that would churn out such a mindlessly devoted person as I? No. So yes, we are working for the American people."

"Well, that's a relief," Mikey sighed, then hesitated, uncertain. "I think . . ."

"But what is it that _we_ can do?" Vince wondered, and both Vaughn and I looked to Dad.

"Quite frankly," Dad frowned, "I don't think that there's anything you _can_ do to help us. But your friend, here, seems to think there is, so I have decided that if you can prove yourselves to be of value to this operation, you may assist in our operations."

"Well," T.J. spoke up briskly, "the way I see it, we gotta move now. Otherwise, he'll start in on the other kids too, and while we might just stand a chance now, if he goes any farther, there's no hope left for humanity. So we gotta go this now, and we gotta do it right the first time, because there won't be any second chances. You got that?"

There was a collection of serious nods, so he went on.

"I think we should split up, each with one partner, and pick various points of entry. That way, if any of us are caught, the rest still have a chance. Miss Carter," to me, "I have taken the liberty of pairing you with myself. Mr. Jones, you will be with Mikey, and Spinelli, you can take Mr.- sorry, what was your name again, Sir?"

Vaughn blinked.

"I- er- Vaughn." he said, imagination (as well as all other mental functions) failing him so soon after his terrible ordeal.

"Mr. Vaughn, then. Spinelli will take you. And Gretchen, you and Vince will be together. Gus, you're lookout. If you see anybody coming into the building, whistle as loud as you can."

"But, T.J.-"

"No, Gus, somebody has to do it, and you're the best choice because you can hide the easiest."

"Yeah, T.J., but-"

"No buts, Gus. National security is at risk, here." T.J. frowned.

"Now, once we're inside, we all fan out and look for the brainwashing machine. When we find it, we'll have to see if there's any possibility of reversing the process, all right? And as it is now, we only have twenty minutes, so we'd better move fast. Got it? Good. Move out."

I caught a glimpse of grudging admiration on Dad's face before we started to move, and had to smile. There's nothing that impresses my father more than management skills, and T.J. had them in spades. Now, though, it was just T.J. and me, creeping through the overgrown foliage in the back of the kindergarten enclosure.

"Is this how you got inside before?" I wondered aloud, and he nodded, steering me around a half-eaten lollipop.

"Yeah. Nobody ever notices you- they think you're just another kindergartener. Then they're more inclined to run the other way, and- whoops, watch your step, Miss Carter." He put out his arm just in time to prevent me from walking straight into a tripwire that ran up into a nearby tree, where it met up with an almost entirely-concealed net fashioned out of what appeared to be half-chewed jump ropes.

"They've gotten quite a few with that one, Miss," he said gravely, and I smiled my thanks before I suggested,

"T.J., how about you call me Sydney? 'Miss' makes me sound a little- well- old."

"All right, Sydney," he nodded. "After you."

"Maybe," I countered, "it would be safer if I were to go after you."

He cracked a smile.

"Maybe it would," he agreed. "Maybe it would."

So I stood aside until he had started well on his way, and then carefully picked my footing after him.

000

_Jack_

000

"So- Mikey," I said, as my large guide led me around to the front doors, "isn't this rather a risky thing to do? Us walking right inside like this, I mean."

"Oh, you might think so, Sir," Mikey said reassuringly, "but in reality, it's probably the safest point of entry. They would never expect us to be so bold, you see."

"I see," I said dubiously. "Does that mean that my daughter and her colleague are likely to be in danger, then?"

"Oh, I don't know about that, Sir," Mikey said, his voice still holding a note of definite reassurance, "T.J. and Spinelli are very capable. In all truth, T.J. likely paired me with you because we were both too large to fit through anything _but_ the front door. For, as you may have noticed, Sir, I am quite a hefty boy for my age."

"I did observe something of the sort, Mikey, yes," I admitted. "Ever considered football?"

"Oh, no, Sir." He was quietly horrified. "Such violent things as contact sports repulse me. I am much more comfortable when on stage- I sing, you know."

I hadn't, but I didn't see the point of telling him that. Instead I managed an uncertain sort of smile, and followed Mikey in through the front door.

000

_Vaughn_

000

I'd like to set the record straight right now, and say that I was all for getting inside the building right away. Never mind the fact that I had only recently escaped a horrible fate within its walls, I honestly did not consider shirking my duty as an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency and an American citizen. I would, in fact, have followed Jack and his young friend right in through the front door without a hesitation- had I been able to do so.

Instead, I found it necessary to linger on the playground for quite some time, as Spinelli began acting in a most peculiar fashion, leading me around in circles that frequently ended up with us crammed into some space that was really far too small for me to fit into. At last, as I struggled to free myself from a plastic crawl tube, I demanded an explanation for her behavior. In response, she jerked her thumb over her shoulder to point at four wide-eyed girls of about her own age, who, now I that I thought about it, had been tagging after us ever since we broke from our main conference group.

"Who are they?" I wondered, and her answer was preceded by a telling snort.

"Not so much 'who' as 'what', I'm afraid. They're the Ashleys," she said cryptically. "They're like kindergarten paste- once you get them on you, you can't get 'em off."

"Comforting," I frowned, and she shrugged such a dilemma off with ease.

"Nothin' to it, really. I was just hoping it wouldn't come down to this."

She tugged my ear down to her level, and whispered in it. I frowned.

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me," she said grimly.

"All right." I replied, unable to hide my uncertainty as I cautiously approached the carefully co-ordinated quartet.

"Um- good day, ladies," I said, and was greeted with a chorus of melty sighs. "I'm Mr. Vaughn, and I- um," I glanced back at Spinelli, who nodded encouragingly, prompting me to turn back to my listeners and finish, "and I once put on socks that did not match my shoes. Deliberately."

I couldn't even see them leave for the dust.

When it settled I was alone, save for Spinelli, who nodded her satisfaction.

"Great job, Mr. Vaughn. Now, let's go catch up with the others."

000

_Sydney_

000

I don't know how T.J. fit me through the one tiny window we found unlocked, but he managed it one way or another, and I ended up sprawled on my stomach in a kindergarten classroom that looked like no other.

It was clean.

It was organized.

It was filled with Medieval artifacts, all carefully catalogued in numerical and alphabetical order on the board in suspiciously childish handwriting.

T.J.'s face bore an expression of indescribable sorrow at he took all of this in, his little shoulders finally slumping as he murmured the tragic truth:

"He's turned them into college students."

"No, T.J.!" I gasped, my heart going out to him. "No, he hasn't! Second graders, maybe; third, at best, but not college students! It just isn't possible. It can't be possible. I can't - I _won't_ - believe it."

"Believe it," Dad said grimly, and I spun around to find him and Mikey standing in the doorway. "The evidence speaks for itself, Sydney. He's totally destroyed them."

"No!" Mikey wailed, anguished, tears springing to his eyes. "What did they ever do to _him_?!"

"Aside from the odd makeover, tea party and third degree burn?" Dad wondered. "Probably nothing too serious. But we aren't dealing with somebody out for revenge- we're dealing with a man who has a definite agenda. His only goal, as far as we know, is to brainwash these children to become the most fearsome army on Earth, and we have to figure out how to reverse the effects of whatever contraption he's using before it's too late."

"Did somebody call my name?" Gretchen smiled, as she and Vince tumbled out of an air duct, and onto a tidy row of beanbag chairs. "Just point me at that brainwasher."

000

Would that it were so easy. We searched amongst the suits of armor and ancient methods of torture for almost five minutes without result until, just as Spinelli and Vaughn finally turned up, Vince let out an exclamation.

"Hey, you guys, over here! Now, I don't know much about Medieval history, or anything, so call me an ignoramus if I'm wrong in saying I don't think they had invented the electric chair back then."

We gathered around just such a contraption, cleverly rigged so it looked much older than it probably was, wires running to and fro into and from a little, kindergarten-sized metal cap that was subsequently hooked into the wall.

"Incredible! A behavior modification device powered solely by the energy resultant from the combustion of basic fossil fuels," Gretchen breathed, her eyes growing large behind her glasses. Spinelli eyed her skeptically.

"In English, Gretch."

"Oh, I beg your pardon. It's an electric brainwasher."

"Great," T.J. sighed his relief. "Can you fix it so it does the opposite of what he's been using it for?"

"I can certainly try," Gretchen said bravely, and approached her opponent, ready for battle. The rest of us wisely retreated to a safe distance, and T.J. eyed Dad, Vaughn and me somewhat smugly.

"Well? Did we do all right by you guys?"

Dad's smile was grudging, but genuine, and he nodded. "Yes, Theodore, you did just fine by us. Now all that remains for us to do is for Sydney to call her boss, and report-"

"Failure," a new voice sneered, and we all rather melodramatically spun around to face Smith and a nasty-looking army of kindergarten children.

T.J.'s angry gaze lit first on Gus, whom Mr. Smith held in one hand.

"You were supposed to be lookout!" he stormed, and Gus shrugged helplessly - or at least, as best he could with one shoulder imprisoned.

"I tried to tell you, T.J. but you wouldn't listen. I can't whistle."

"Oh, man!" T.J. smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "This _seriously_ whomps."

Mr. Smith, however, was not so much interested in Gus's lack of musical prowess as he was in gloating over my father and me.

"Did you really think," he frowned, "that I couldn't hear every word you two said to each other during your delightful little conferences in the hallway? Oh, you were careful enough at first, but it wasn't long before you seemed to forget you were even undercover. Very clumsy of you, Mr. Bristow, for a man of such experience to make such a careless mistake. And to permit your daughter to do the same? Quite a foolish _faux pas_ on your part. A fatal one, actually."

He turned to his little minions and instructed, with a flick of his wrist, "get 'em, kiddies."

They charged, and so fearsome a sight were they that not one of us could contain our screams.

"Daddy!" I shrieked, and he booted two of them off me before they were on him as well, and he was unable to help me anymore.

Tempting though it might have been to grab one of the many spiked clubs that decorated the room, I resisted. The children were not, after all, acting under their own free will, and- darn those little critters, chewing on my knuckles like that.

It seemed, for a bit, as if it would not be long at all before we succumbed to the horrors that surrounded us. Indeed, Gus was going down for what probably would have been the last time when, like the proverbial ray of light, there came the sweetest sound I - any of us - had ever heard. It was that of the bell that rang to signify that recess was over, and all children were to return to their classrooms immediately.

Like trained lab rats they came, both my class and Dad's, hunting us down without mercy. When they came upon Mr. Smith's classroom, and saw what was going on, they sprang into the midst of the fray with squeals of pure, fiendish delight, fueled by their carbohydrate-rich lunches and the half-eaten candy they had retrieved from where it had been stashed the previous recess. When my attackers had been pulled off of me by the fresh group of kids, who outnumbered the old two to one, I was finally able to stop defending myself with a little plastic chair, and step back from the worst of the fight with a sigh of relief.

"I'll call for reinforcements!" Dad hollered at me over the fearful din, and I nodded wearily, watching as he turned his back on the melee, fishing down into an inner pocket for his cell phone.

I never saw the blow coming- I'm not even sure which direction it came from. All I knew is that I went from a relatively upright position to flat on my back, looking up into the face of a very angry K-Directorate agent/kindergarten teacher wannabe. He brandished a sword, doubtless taken from one of the suits of armor, before placing the tip of it just at the base of my throat.

Now, I fully appreciate the values of a classical education. A kinesthetic learner myself, I especially believe that props help children to get in touch with the lesson they are being taught like no textbook ever can, and can be an invaluable part of any lesson. That said, however, I just have one simple question I would dearly love an answer to- what maniacal _idiot_ brings a _sword_ into a _kindergarten_ classroom? Big, sharp, cutting things are a no-no! Something like that could _hurt_ somebody- me, most imminently.

Of course, that kind of seemed to be the point.

"I wouldn't do that, Mr. Bristow," Mr. Smith called warningly, and Dad, who found that the plastic casing on his cell phone had been cracked anyway, turned around in time to see the full extent of my predicament. His jaw tightened, and his eyes became even graver than they already had been.

"Now," Mr. Smith decided, "unless you want me to stretch her out on that rack over there, and see if it's still any good after all these years, you'll put the phone away."

Dad obeyed without a quibble.

"Now," he was instructed, "get those little monsters to stop attacking my army, and shut them out in the hallway while I deal with you and your daughter and your little cohorts."

Dad looked at me helplessly, and I knew what he was thinking- how was he supposed to get the kids to listen to him? Yes, they had been carting Smith's kids off, presumably to be fixed by Gretchen, every time they overpowered one of them, but they had been doing that of their own free will. If Dad told them to do something, they were just as likely to side with Smith as they were to listen to their teacher.

Thankfully, however, we were spared the painful scenario that Smith was planning on enacting as revenge for Dad's disobedience, since Vaughn, who had been out of my line of sight for quite some time now, chose to make a timely appearance.

He emerged from behind a suit of armor, holding at an arm's length one smallish child, female in gender, who was twisting vigourously in her attempts to free herself from his grip. When he saw me flat on my back, about to become the first Bristow in two or three hundred years to die by sword, he turned the child around to face my captor, whispered something in her ear, and set her on the ground.

Biter Girl launched herself gleefully at Smith's ankle, sinking her sharp little baby teeth right down to the bone, confirming what her mother had warned me of earlier- she _was_ feeling very temperamental that day.

The sword clattered down harmlessly beside my ear as Smith dropped it to clutch at his ankle in a state of utter agony. I then quickly rolled to my feet, grabbing it up before some curious kid could get hold of it and see first-hand if it really worked like the books said it did. For his part Dad waded through a sea of knee-high children, most of whom were now settling down for their naps, to make sure that I was all right and to offer a stiff hug that gradually relaxed, and warmed ever so slightly as I remained in it.

Then I backed up, directly into Vaughn, who smiled down at me a little awkwardly before offering me his own arms. His hug was even warmer, and promised to last even longer than Dad's, had Dad not offered a rather intimidating glare, which hint Vaughn gracefully accepted, backing off as T.J. and his cronies approached us.

"Gretchen says she's down to the last few kids," T.J. reported, "and that it won't be hard at all to destroy the thing."

"Good," Vaughn decided, "because my sick leave ends tomorrow morning, and I want to get some real sleep before I have to go back to work."

"What about me?" I complained. "I haven't gotten a decent hour of REM sleep since I got here. I mean, I live in a matchbox of an apartment- I can't even stretch my legs out because they'll bump into the opposite wall!"

"Fine," Vaughn sighed, "you go stay in a hotel, and I'll take your matchbox. Even a sardine can would feel good after this. Then we can head back to LA together tomorrow morning, and show up a few hours late for work. After this, I think Devlin owes us something extra."

And, since I couldn't honestly argue with that, I agreed that such seemed the best course of action, and with my recommendation backing it up, that was exactly what we did.

000

000

Well, that's most of it, and the last few happy things will be packaged up in the epilogue, which shouldn't be too long in coming. Included in the epilogue will also be, chiefly for my own enjoyment, a list of alterations I made while writing the story, just to show you how little the story varies from the dream I had that started all this. Gotta lay off that pizza and lemon tea . . .

Thanks so much to everybody who's reviewed so far- I never knew how much stuff like that meant until I started getting it! I'm glad you liked it, and if you want to stick around for the epilogue, there might also be a little something between Syd and Vaughn, though I make no promises.

Disclaimers? You really want them? Come back for the epilogue, and I'll give 'em to you. Strange little people they let on the Internet these days . . .


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue! This is it! I wasn't actually sure, for a while, if I could wrap this out without it going on too long (anybody read my silly little three chapter prediction for Five Years? Yes? Please don't tease me too much . . .) Of course, the length was already sort of pre-determined, what with the dream I had being my guideline, so I suppose five chapters and an epilogue isn't so bad, really. I mean, I hope it isn't . . .

Actually, I've had to add a little bit on to my dream in order to make it fit. Just for fun, I've made a list of the changes I made, and that's located at the bottom, along with - yes, they have returned - the disclaimers. Before you read that part, though, why don't you read the epilogue first?

Enjoy, and, if you've got a minute (or even thirty seconds) I'd love it if you could leave me a review. Thanks again to everybody who has already done so, and a special hello to Jen. She both baffled and amazed me by somehow knowing what I was going to write before I even wrote it, and her e-mails have meant so much to me as I struggled to balance my writing with the less significant things, like maintaining my GPA . . .

000

_Sydney_

000

"Gretchen says she's down to the last few kids," T.J. reported, "and that it won't be hard at all to destroy the thing."

"Good," Vaughn decided, "because my sick leave ends tomorrow morning, and I want to get some real sleep before I have to go back to work."

"What about me?" I complained. "I haven't gotten a decent hour of REM sleep since I got here. I mean, I live in a matchbox of an apartment- I can't even stretch my legs out because they'll bump into the opposite wall!"

"Fine," Vaughn sighed, "you go stay in a hotel, and I'll take your matchbox. Even a sardine can would feel good after this. Then we can head back to LA together tomorrow morning, and show up a few hours late for work. After this, I think Devlin owes us something extra."

And, since I couldn't honestly argue with that, I agreed that such seemed the best course of action, and with my recommendation backing it up, that was exactly what we did.

000

Devlin, much to my surprise, didn't so much as scold us. I was expecting him to- I was even up to it, since I finally had a decent night's sleep in the hotel room, and grabbed another hour or two on the plane, just for good measure. Devlin, however, was perfectly understanding, and even suggested that we take the remainder of the work day off. I may have had nothing else to do, but I certainly had no desire to find myself shipped off to Alaska to infiltrate a band of rogue KGB seals, so I took his suggestion with the maximum amount of enthusiasm as my bruised ribs would permit. Vaughn, too, seemed pleased to have a break, and after we talked our options over, we decided to be a little daring, and have coffee by the window of the CIA café.

Now, the CIA café is nothing much to write home about, and the coffee is only a degree or two away from putrid, but the company more than made up for all of that. I sat as close to the window as I dared, held a polystyrene cupful of the worst sludge I have ever tasted, and looked directly into the eyes of Michael Vaughn without worrying I'd get a bullet in my back.

"So," he smiled, carefully nudging his coffee to one side, "you think you'll be able to recover from this?"

"Sooner or later, I think I will," I decided. "I mean, I may have my tubes tied tomorrow, but I really do think I'll be all right."

"Oh, I hope not," Vaughn frowned, and I was so surprised I actually took a drink of my coffee. Once I'd coughed and sputtered my way around the charred flavor, wiped at my streaming eyes, and gasped out a question.

"You hope not?! What do you mean by that?"

"I meant, I hope you won't have your- that- erm- operation," he explained. "I think- well, I think that you would really make a terrific mother someday, Sydney."

Embarrassingly enough, my eyes filled with tears.

"Danny thought so, too," I said softly. "He- before he died, he was- he looked at my stomach, and he said, 'Someday there's going to be a baby in there.'"

I thought of the way he had said it, with such love, and felt shivers rack my body all over again.

"For just a second," I admitted, "I was scared. I mean, I thought 'Me? A mother? Yeah, right. I'm just a kid!' But then- I don't know. I thought about what it would mean, to feel a real person kicking around inside of me, and know that he or she was really, truly all mine, and suddenly I couldn't wait for it to happen. I wanted- I wanted so badly to have that baby. Then, when he- when he died, it wasn't possible anymore. I didn't think there could be anybody I would ever love that much again- love so much that I would be willing to share something that precious with him."

Vaughn looked at me sympathetically for a minute, then hesitantly reached across the table to touch the back of my clenched hand.

"And- do you still think that? That there won't be anybody for you?"

"I did," I said carefully, "for a very long time. Only now . . ."

I trailed off, and his eyes prompted me to continue. Only- should I? True, he had asked me, so it's possible he at least suspected. But if he took it the wrong way - or, perhaps even worse, took it the right way - what would I do after that? I made the mistake of saying too much to Danny. I didn't want to do that again.

But on the other hand, was it possible that I could also make the mistake of saying too little? I didn't want to chance it, so I took a deep breath and spoke more carefully than I had in a long time.

"Now, having- having seen you with the kids back there, and being so good with them, even when they dressed you up as Barney-" a low groan from Vaughn - "I think- I think that maybe it might be possible to find somebody else I would be willing to- to raise a family with."

That said, I held my breath. Had I said too much? Was he going to take it the wrong way? Or had I not said enough?

I needn't have worried.

His eyes got very serious, and he said with great deliberation, "I'm glad, Sydney. I know you'll make a terrific mother."

"Someday," I added quickly, and he laughed a bit.

"Yes, someday."

"Do you think," I said hesitantly, "that my husband will wait that long?"

He looks at me, and his eyes are both twinkling and hopeful as he says, "I don't doubt it."

"I'm glad." I looked down at my coffee cup, then, decisively, knocked back the entire contents. Vaughn gapes at me, and his expression suggested he was suddenly convinced I was certifiable.

With a weak, watery-eyed smile, I managed, "hey, kids are unpredictable, right? If you plan to have a family of your own someday, you might as well start getting used to it."

"I don't need kids to keep me on my toes," he rolled his eyes, "I have you."

"Not yet," I said under my breath, once we had parted ways with greatest reluctance, "not yet, you don't, but someday, if you want me, you will."

000

000

You liked? Yes? Even if you were a little puzzled at times, I appreciate you simply taking the time to read it. Even more, though, do I appreciate the reviews you've been leaving me- you guys are fantastic! Now, as I mentioned earlier, just for kicks I decided to make a little list of the things I added or altered to the dream that sparked this entire crazy story, and they are as follows.

- First chapter. I had to make up all of that, because in my dream, Syd started out at the school, and I just couldn't toss her in there without explaining it first, so the first chapter was really created after the second, third, etc.

- Vaughn. In my dream, he only made a very brief appearance during the final scene. I either had to cut him out completely (and I couldn't do that!) or I had to give him other stuff to do. He really was dressed as Barney, though.

- Time of day they broke into the kindergarten building. Would you believe that it was originally night time? I loved that scenario, and I tried to figure out how to keep it that way, but the kindergarten kids had to be there, too, and kindergarten doesn't have in-school sleepovers, so much to my consternation I had to change it.

- The Ashleys. They were not, actually, in my original dream. It was only after I read a review with the suggestion that they should stalk Vaughn that I had a dream to that effect and decided to add it in (except in the dream they were in LA, and wanted him to audition for Barney. So I had to change that a bit).

My dream, too, was much shorter, and a lot of the things I've gone into detail about were simply accepted knowledge when I slept- you know how dreams are. If you know that the little kid who's biting the guy's ankle has a habit of biting, then in a dream, you just accept that. I mean, of course she does. Doesn't everybody?

Anyway, it's all over and done with now- at least, until the next dream! So here are those little things that I highly doubt anybody reads, but decided to put in anyway, just because the late great Credit Dauphine instilled in me the habit, and I have found it amazingly hard to break.

Alias innit mine. Not by a long shot. Belongs to whatsisface- JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions (I know, I know, I'm not going to say anything) Touchtone pictures, ABC television, what have you. Good for them. I'm going, now.


End file.
